


How Do I Get To Heaven?

by someforeignband



Series: Dearest, 1995 [2]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 90's AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Always, Consensual Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, I just want to give you guys more stuff, I'm Sorry, John Needs A Hug, John is still a mess, M/M, Minor Character Death, Paul needs a hug, Religious Content, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, hehe, ill put more tags in later, im still a virgin, sorry - Freeform, surprise, we have a new narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:47:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22791217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someforeignband/pseuds/someforeignband
Summary: What happens after the death of John Lennon? What does this mean for their love now? Who is John now?
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Yoko Ono, Linda McCartney/Paul McCartney, Paul McCartney/Original Character(s)
Series: Dearest, 1995 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619071
Comments: 42
Kudos: 57





	1. heaven

**Author's Note:**

> welcome sweet children! appreciate you all heaps ! hope you enjoy this little slice of something ;) this is unedited Im so PUMPED FOR THIS ;))))))) XXXXXXX

The world is full of a lot of people who think they know me better than I do. People will talk a lot of shit when they don’t know you’re listening. And they’re loud as fuck, too, spouting random shite thinking that you don’t know that they’re saying anything about you, expecting things to go back to the way that they were. And yet, even when you’re all but behind a plexiglass wall, they still talk. They still fucking talk, as if they know a goddamn thing about you. 

As if they’re the ones writing your life story, as if they have any right to talk about who your friends were, or who you were for that matter.

And they still  _ talk. _

My hands didn’t stop shaking for three days. And I’ll stand by that, the fact that my body shook like a damn chihuahua for probably seventy-two hours after that night. Fucking ridiculous, trying to do something as simple as open a granola bar, feeling all of the people on the bus stare at you like you’ve grown a third eye in the middle of your forehead. Even though I hadn’t, it was hard to sit comfortably under the gazes of so many, as if they knew, silently judging. Like they fucking knew anything about me or anything about what I’d been through.

I knew they’d seen the news. It was obvious, the way that they studied my face in the dimness of the bus’ cabin. They could fuck all the way off, I was so  _ tired,  _ of everything that had been happening lately, this whole situation was absolutely  _ draining.  _ But here they are, still pointing, whispering under their breaths.

It probably didn’t help that I never learned to get stains out of my clothes, that was always my mum’s job. The blood on my shirt from the cut across the flat of my belly probably did wonders to keep peoples’ eyes off me. A bloody blue tee shirt and legs covered in mud drew a lot of eyes in my direction. 

I never learned to get bloodstains out of my clothes, even though I used to get bad nosebleeds as a kid, the kind that left a headache after. The kind of nosebleeds that took you by surprise, even if you had tissues readily available. As a toddler, my mum used to put a cold rag over my eyes, cradling my head in her hands, tipping it back so that blood wouldn’t go everywhere. But, every time it’d get all over us, without fail, she’d be using her special stain remover to get the blood out. 

But, I never learned to get blood out of my clothes. 

I never learned how to do a lot of things, and I found myself sopping wet, sitting on the back of the bus, backpack over my lap, desperately trying to cover the obviousness of the gash across my stomach. It wasn’t deep, it wouldn’t kill me. It didn’t stop it from hurting like a bitch though, glass from the windshield made its home in the soft flesh under my sternum, before leaving the skin again. It had torn me open, but the benefits outweigh the costs, didn’t they?

I wasn’t sure. But I could tell you that I was pretty sure that I’d rather be dead in the sea at my own hands, trying to do something for myself, than dead at the hands of the person I’d reluctantly come to call “father”. And yes, I was so fucking selfish, choosing to save myself, rather than the people around me. And that’s who I was, wasn’t it? Selfish. 

I always had been, I think.

And that’s something I needed to work on, another thing I’d never learned how to do, learning how to prioritize others over myself. But, I guess it simply wasn’t in my blood to do that, to  _ love.  _

I was lucky. I was learning how, I felt that now I had these guidelines, these simple instructions laid out for me all by a boy who only knew how to do one thing: Love. But things were never that simple, the movie never ended happily, at least not when it seemed that I was the one behind the camera.

And even now, here I was, directing this endless plot, watching helplessly from behind the camera. I was watching the plot of my own life unravel in front of me. It was almost like watching the end of your life, I mean… technically it was. The end of my life. 

Nothing about the situation was like anything that I imagined, expecting to make the final tear away from the life that I’d once lived to feel like being plunged into the baptismal font. Severing that final string, not as easy as I’d thought, there was collateral damage. There was always way too much collateral damage. 

But, there was so much that I simply couldn’t take, and maybe if I was more like him I could’ve. Maybe if I thought like him, acted like him,  _ loved _ like him, things could’ve been different. 

But they weren’t, and I wasn’t Paul. I could never be Paul. And there was still  _ so _ much that I still didn’t know.

There were so many things that I had yet to learn, and I guess now was as good of a time as any.


	2. i'm so tired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does it matter that he was once John? Does it matter if that’s not him anymore?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there! long time no see:( sorry that it’s been such a long time since I uploaded:(( I’ve been in such a funk lately, and this pandemic surely hasn’t helped!! however!!!!!! Im hoping that we get back to regular updates and i hope you’re all still just as invested in this as i am!! Also just a reminder that John, Paul, Yoko, and Linda, and any others in the Beatles Character Universe are merely that in my book!! I do not want to paint any of these real people in a bad light!! They are merely acting as characters in this work of fiction:) as always!! I appreciate you all dearly!!
> 
> BIG SHOUT OUT to Kaylee and May who endlessly support me in everything I do and I sincerely could not do this without them. 
> 
> this is unedited. sowwy :-)

It wasn’t meant to be like this, and that absolutely ate away at me. And I feel like that should be at least noted. Because, everything that  _ I  _ had planned wasn’t supposed to take this long. I should’ve been able to lie low  _ just long enough _ that everything could work itself out. But things never work out that way, do they? I wasn’t supposed to know the things that I did, shouldn’t have been able to get away with the things that I had. But what are you supposed to do, when you overhear your father talking to someone in the other room? Talking about how it was  _ so easy  _ to get rid of Julia. How easy it was to get rid of your mother. 

Get rid of her. 

And for what? To get the share of her life insurance, no doubt: to get a cut of that money. And, that’s when I started to figure it out. I found a pile of bank statements in the kitchen garbage can, covered in the ashes from smoked cigars. The Lennon family was in hot water, and not the kind that a little bit of sweet talking could get us out of. My father was fat fucking broke. 

My father built up our family’s name from the ground up, that sharp tongue and eloquent brain seemed to open doors that were originally locked and bolted shut. But that never seemed to stop him, eventually finding a way to run right into my mother, the wonderful and kind woman that she was. She saw my father like a project, and my father saw her as an opportunity.

Julia Stanley sat atop a fortune unlike any other, and my father knew this. And once again, his stupid good looks and silver tongue worked like a charm, and as soon as they were married, that obscene kind of money you only see in movies was his. That money, you know the kind of  _ old _ money that comes from getting your hands dirty in something I’d rather not think about, was practically more my father’s than my mother’s at that point. It was easy for him to cozy right up to my grandfather, finding a way to manipulate and stab backs until Stanley’s WoodWorks was Lennon and Company. It wasn’t hard for him. 

It seemed like nothing was. Not even figuring out a way to murder my mother and make it look like a goddamn fucking accident. 

I guess crazier things have happened. 

Bastard. 

And I promise, it wasn’t like me to do this kinda shit, to let myself be so reckless. I was  _ supposed  _ to fly under the radar. I wasn’t supposed to be doing this kind of shit, being so in the spotlight. That wasn’t the plan at least, but somehow I’m here. I’m lying in a bed that’s not mine, in a penthouse that’s not mine, next to a lover that was  _ not mine.  _ There’s a child in the next room over, sired from a man who is  _ not me.  _ And I’m here in a country that I don’t belong in, with a woman I  _ don’t _ love, pretending to be years  _ older _ than I am, and for  _ what _

I was supposed to lie low, supposed to wait this out, supposed to pretend like everything was going to go back to normal, but somehow days turn into months and then all of a sudden all of your cash is pulled out of an offshore account with the help of your mother’s sister, and you’re on a plane to New York City. Then you’re dying your hair black, growing a horrible mustache, and then dying that too. You get rid of your contacts, and trade them for glasses, your ripped jeans are tossed and traded for silk trousers and then what? 

Then, you’re selling your art for money and a name that is not yours is plastered to the front of a museum and you’re writing a book, being a father, and a doding faithful husband to one of the most influential artists in the state. And suddenly it’s 2000 and you’re lying awake in bed wondering how the  _ fuck  _ did I get here? 

I guess crazier things have happened. 

And no, there wasn’t a minute that went by that I didn’t think of him. But, that would have to wait, for the sake of all parties involved. I couldn’t risk my father doing something to him, couldn’t risk putting anyone else involved with Paul in danger. My father was a powerful man, I knew that much, but how powerful exactly, I couldn't be too sure. And to be completely honest, I wasn’t going to put even a toe out of line if it meant something as miniscule as Paul’s father losing his job. I couldn’t risk even that kind of a thing. 

For the first year and a half, I kept myself up at night working myself into a lather wondering if my father was going to come after me and strike me dead like he had my mother, but the fear eventually subsided. But not for long, my father was a goddamn killer. He’d killed my mother, who I’d always pictured as the love of his life. Honestly, until I’d met Paul, I’d figured that this was the way that all couples interacted, that they fought and beat on each other, that  _ this absolutely vicious  _ behavior was normal. And I guess it wasn’t a big shock, I always knew my father was a cruel man, but a killer? I hadn’t ever even dreamt that kind of a thing. Greed drove him to do a lot of crazy things, it was his biggest motivator. And there wasn’t much more to be excused on his behalf, the things he’d done, the atrocities he’d committed in his time. 

Love drove me to do a lot of crazy things, like run away from home and fake my own goddamn death. Like seeking out my mother’s sister, only for her to scramble to find me a new identity and ship me off to the states, finding a way to send me a bi-monthly stipend to hold me over until I got on my feet. She’d help me to withdraw all of the money my mother had left me, only me, and sent me to live with a friend of hers. He’d helped me cut and color my hair, change my appearance, the works. Even fitted me for a brand new identity, hence the Charles McKenzie aged 30 at the top of my driver’s license. I was nearly 24, but that didn’t stop me from being acknowledged as 30 fucking years old. There were a lot of pluses to having old money, these connections ran deep, and the ways to get around the law were easier than you could even imagine. 

And, I guess that’s what’s so fucking crazy, cause my father and I are really alike in that. We use this money to get the things we need done accomplished, and we improvise and move on from there. There’s nothing scarier to me than the realization that I’m like my father. Those flashes back to the penultimate time that I saw Paul reminds me of that every damn day. But I’d use this privilege to protect the ones I’d come to care about, use this money to do  _ something _ that will prove useful, so that I can try to figure this shit out, try to get everything squared away. At least that’s how it was supposed to be, but now it’s been nearly five years and I’m no closer to getting back to Paul than I was when I first arrived in New York. 

_ Jesus.  _

“What are you thinking about?” A gentle voice asks from my side, a soft hand placed against my bare chest. I sigh softly, bringing a hand up to scrub across my face, the feeling of a mustache above my lip still feeling foreign against the skin of my palm. “I can tell you’re thinking,” She whispers, her hand retreating from the center of my chest, the sheets rustling as she sits up in bed to look down at me. There’s a faint amount of sun peeking through the thick blinds over the window, and I can almost see the big orange ball making itself known over the New York skyline. I hadn't slept a wink that night. 

“Yeah,” I murmur, sighing again. “Thinking… about… my mum.” I finally decide to say, rolling over to my side, staring at the beautiful woman beside me. Her long black hair hung in thick braids across her shoulders, her silk nightshirt shimmering in the dim lighting. She didn’t deserve the lie I was selling her. She was too good for that, too good for all of this  _ shite.  _

_ Jesus wept.  _

“Are you alright?” She whispers, placing a cautious hand across my forehead, smoothing some of the hair back away from the skin there. 

I nod eventually, sitting up and grabbing her hand from against my forehead, pressing my lips gently to the palm of her delicate hand. “I’m fine, flower,” I whisper, the hairs from my mustache rubbing up against her palm. She tuts, dropping her head to the side and studies my face silently, her brows furrowing together in concentration. 

“Would you like to have tea on the patio?” Yoko asks after a moment of silence, tucking a stray wave of hair behind her ear. I nod slowly, rising up from my spot on the left side of the bed, throwing my legs over the side feet making contact with the cool tile of our bedroom floor. I mentally corrected myself,  _ her  _ bedroom floor. Nothing in this house was mine, well… that wasn’t exactly true. There were things here that I technically purchased, but these were things that belonged to Charles J. McKenzie…  _ not John Winston Lennon.  _

Yoko calls me Chuck sometimes, and there’s something about the nonchalance of her nature, and the way that her accent curls around the name  _ Chuck _ that makes me feel all the worse. I remember the first time she’d called me it, my work hanging in her exhibit, squirming child in her arms, bursting with laughter at the thought of my name being  _ Chuck.  _ And since then, I’d been Chuck to Kyoko, and Chuck had eventually morphed to  _ Daddy, _ and once again I found myself wondering how the  _ fuck _ I’d gotten here. 

_ Jesus fucking wept.  _

“Should I wake Kyoko?” I asked, the softness of my own voice sounding strange breaking the comfortable silence.

“I reckon not.”

__

Moments like this creep up on me, watching the sun peek up over the skyline, the silhouettes of skyscrapers looking black against the blazing pink and orange of the bleeding sunrise; I realized how much of what I had was real, but was completely luck. “I’m lucky to have met you,” I say after a moment of silence between the two of us, the steaming cup of tea is warm in my hands. Yoko hums, placing a soft hand against my upper arm, a soft smile spreading across her features.

“I knew you were the one the moment that I met you, you know?” She purrs after a moment, the gravity of the statement almost making my heart drop out of my asshole. I nod, eventually, taking a long sip of tea, desperately wishing it were something stronger in that moment. 

“I saw you, across the room, tall and handsome, and you were hanging that piece and I- I just knew, Charlie,” she says, her gaze fixed on the sunrise. I blink a few more times.

“I’m so lucky,” is what I settle on, bringing the warm mug of tea back to my lips, desperate to fill the silence with something to do that wasn’t talking. Jesus Christ. I was in so deep.

And, it’s not that I didn’t love her you know. I cared for her a lot, and she’d helped me out of a tight spot. When I’d met Yoko, I was bumming it in a rat infested studio apartment that didn't have heating or air-conditioning. I got my work in this show in inner-city New York, and my ID claimed that I was 26, but there was no way that the man believed me. I looked 19 through and through, but my ID said what it said and thus I set up my exhibit, struggling with screws and heavy art pieces. And just as I was about to leave, covered in sweat, I saw her. 

I recognized Yoko from the art world that I had followed fairly closely from my family’s computer in Liverpool. It was never something that I ever really considered, you know, that I was living in New York, but surely,  _ the Yoko Ono,  _ wouldn’t show up at some rinky-dink art show in inner-city NYC. I’d been wrong. Dead wrong.

And she was there, in all her glory, shouldering a purse with a baby on her hip, obnoxious sunglasses perched on the end of her nose. A 27 year old single mother, one of the most prominent rising artists, and her gaze caught mine. I was a 19 year old runaway from Liverpool who was just desperately trying to make some cash, but for all she knew, I was a 26 year old bachelor and aspiring artist from London.

Before I knew it, we were going everywhere together, and I folded in so easily. Scarily easily, surviving and adapting to a new kind of High Society, almost as if I’d been bred for it. And maybe I was. I was more of a chameleon than I gave myself credit for, but I chose to ignore it. I didn’t want to acknowledge that I possessed the same kinds of skills that my father had, the ability to talk your way into someone’s life. Cause that’s what I was doing, wasn’t it? Sucking from my damn lifeblood that was Yoko Ono, without her, I would’ve been nothing. 

Just like my own father.

But I did love Yoko, I did. But, there was just something that was different about this love that made it so different from what I’d had with Paul. And, unfortunately, I wasn’t exactly sure what it was. But the guilt about everything was eating away at me, and I was damn sure that it would swallow me whole. I mean look at me, I was locked in. I was  _ married _ . I was the legal guardian of an  _ actual tiny human.  _

Luckily, I didn’t have too much time to think about any of this, my thoughts interrupted by the sound of the screen door sliding open, startling me. I turn around to get an eyeful of the sleepy tiny human that I was the bloody legal guardian of. A sleep-shrouded Kyoko emerges from inside the penthouse, rubbing her eyes tiredly, baby blanket draped around her small shoulders like a cape.

“Good morning, princess,” I hum, chuckling slightly as she squints at the bright, early morning sun, her hair a mess of black waves around her head, bangs sticking up in a thousand different directions. 

“Hi baby,” Her mother coos from beside me, reaching out to smooth some of the wild hair down.

Kyoko grumbles in response, immediately ignoring her own mother’s advances in favor of climbing into my lap and curling up against my chest. I lean down, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of her messy bed-head. Yoko lets out a gentle, tinkling laugh from beside me, eventually feigning a loud sigh

“She likes you more than me!” She exclaims as Kyoko curls herself further into my chest, apparently finding it as good a spot as any to continue sleeping.

“No way!” I scoff, lovingly carding a hand through Kyoko’s tangled mess of hair, watching Yoko watch me, twisting the wedding ring on her finger. I’d become so distracted, hadn’t I? Living this life, without  _ him _ I felt like there was always something missing, but part of me had to wonder if what I was doing was for the best. But then, I look at this magnificent life I’d built around me and I was once again torn between what I had and what I could have, all while what I had was stacked upon countless lies. 

But I was here now, wasn’t I?  Kyoko stirs in my arms, shaking me out of my thoughts momentarily. “Daddy, can you make me some breakfast?” She asks, blinking up at me, blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders still. I glance at Yoko, the glisten of love behind her eyes makes something warm bloom in the center of my chest.

“I suppose it is time for breakfast, isn’t it?” 

__

“We’ve still got that art expo planned for next month, yeah?” I ask Yoko absentmindedly, while bringing my easel inside from where I’d been sitting on the back balcony painting for the better part of the last few days. The sun had begun to set and I started to feel the ache in my back get worse, sharp pains shooting down through my legs from standing hunched over for so long, so I decided to call it a night. 

“Of course, on the 27th. There will be a dinner of some kind, too, I’m sure. Don’t really know full plans yet,” my wife chirps from where she’s sat on the couch with Kyoko, watching some kind of nightly children’s program. 

“I think this piece should be done by then,” I state confidently, laying the canvas down on the table, and wiping my paint covered hands on the front of my pants. Yoko scoffs, rolling her eyes at me, she’ll probably get on me about ruining another pair of “perfectly good pants” later on tonight when Kyoko is sleeping. 

Which, it was just about time to put her to bed, as whatever show they were watching ended, and Yoko began to clean up whatever snack she’d been eating. Kyoko shifts slightly, looking between Yoko and I before asking, “Can daddy read me the story and tuck me in, tonight?”

Yoko nods, shaking her head softly afterwards. “Yes of course, little one,” She sighs, giving me a knowing look before saying, “She just likes you because you’re never the one who puts her in time out.” 

I shrug in apathetic agreement, looking down at my paint covered arms and legs. “I suppose you’re right, my sweet. However, that doesn’t mean that I can’t put her to bed,” I argue, pressing a chaste kiss to Yoko’s lips. She rolls her eyes again.

“Although, I ought to shower instead of putting you to bed though, don’t you think?” I ask, quickly walking over to where the little girl I’ve come to love so much is perched on the end of the couch. I crawl towards her, dirty, paint-covered hands outstretched, ready to tickle her. She squeals, kicking at me, trying to keep me away, but I scoop her up laying her over my shoulder. She yelps and squeals, laughing and kicking wildly, complaining about the fact that I’m going to get her pajamas all dirty. 

I dart into her room before launching Kyoko down on the bed, watching her giggle and kick her legs wildly as she lands softly against her pillows. I smile gently down at her, before asking, “Which tale shall we tell tonight?” and pulling back the Ariel bedspread. She quickly climbs underneath, pulling the covers up to her chin, blinking her large, dark eyes up at me. 

“Tell me the one about the guy who was _ so magic _ he could play any song on the piano,” she squeals excitedly.  _ Ah yes.  _

_ Paul.  _

For some damned reason, she always asked me to tell her about “ _ my best friend from in England!”  _ which, who else was I going to talk about? I wove this tale about how I knew this guy who was so magical that he could magically pick up an instrument and know how to play. I made this whole story about how a witch put a spell on him, but he used it only for good things and blah blah blah. And honestly, the story was tired and worn out, I’d told it at least a dozen times, but nearly every night, she asks me to tell her about “the boy who was so magic”. And if only she knew how right she was, if only she knew how “magic” Paul really was. 

__

Kyoko was asleep before I could even begin to really tell the story, which was honestly a relief, I just couldn’t find the strength to do it tonight, to think about him like that. Yoko was on the phone, so I figured I could busy myself in the shower, attempting to get the paint off of my body and out of my hair, before getting in between clean sheets. Although, thinking about it a little bit harder, I was probably just going to get dirty all over again tomorrow, so I kind of debated whether the shower would really be worth it or not.

Eventually deciding to just bite the bullet, I turned the shower on, closing the bathroom door and ridding myself of my clothes. I’d somehow managed to get paint literally in my belly button. Not sure exactly how that happened, but here we are. 

The shower was hot, water pressure shitty as usual, but it got the job done. I wrapped myself in a towel, padding into our bedroom- her bedroom- wincing at how cold the tile flooring was against my damp feet. Yoko lay in her usual place, right side of the bed, facing the window, but she still continued speaking to someone on the phone, the conversation chirpy and nice. It was rare to hear my wife so animated and bubbly, and I found myself smiling at her as I dried myself off, pulling on a pair of sweatpants before walking to my side of the bed. 

“Oh I’m sure we’re going to love him, Linda. He’s-” she stops speaking, listening to the equally as bubbly voice on the other side of the line: Linda, I was guessing. Linda was the only real artist friend that I knew Yoko to have, the two were like peas in a pod, babbling on and on for hours about art and photography. Linda was a photographer, and a damn good one at that, I’d picked that up from the two or three brief times that I’d met her. She was one of the sweetest women in the world, her voice soft and kind, her mannerisms gentle, she cared so much for Yoko and that meant a lot to me. 

Linda meant a lot to me, mostly because she meant a lot to Yoko. 

“Linda, if he’s important to you, then he’s important to me” She pauses, and I reach out for her hand, squeezing it softly before letting it go and tucking myself into bed. I feel Yoko’s hand reach down to begin mindlessly playing with my hair as she continues to babble back and forth with Linda on the phone.

I find myself drifting off when Yoko finally hangs up the phone, bidding Linda what felt like her eighteenth goodbye, setting the phone on the bedside table before turning her lamp off. “Sorry,” she murmurs, placing a few soft kisses to my forehead, nose and lips. I smile up at her, shrugging as if to promise that it didn’t matter.

“Linda and her new boyfriend are coming to the show at the end of the month, she’s ecstatic for us to meet him,” she explains, eventually getting settled and laying her head on my chest. I hum in acknowledgement, the exhaustion of the day’s events beginning to pull me into dreamland. 

“Linda thinks he’s really a keeper, Chuck,” Yoko says, sensing my sleepiness. “Goodnight, my love,” She whispers, and I feel a smile creep onto my face. 

“Goodnight, sweet Yoko,” I murmur, before falling completely into slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh… john’s new fake name ,,, came from two beatles songs so i hope you like it well enough… it won’t be around for too long! It came from Eleanor Rigby (Father McKenzie), as well as from When I’m Sixty-Four (Chuck, which became charles and charlie). ALSO I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT ART SHOWS SO PLEASE DONT TAKE THIS TOO SERIOUSLY IM TRYING MY BEST THIS IS JUST SUPPOSED TO BE FUN :-)) THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR READING I HOPE YOU ENJOYED !!! PEACE AND LOVE PEACE AND LOVE xxxxxx


	3. seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is haunted by what should have been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys, how are you all doing with all of this pandemic stuff ? like really, how are you coping ? by reading mclennon fanfiction ? me too. well in any case, im only a message away on tumblr or insta! theyre both @ someforeignband !! appreciate you all dearly and hope you're well xxx
> 
> shout out may and kaylee,,, as per usual ,,, literally everything i do would be impossible without their constant love and attention !!!!

_ “Hey, chin up, bambi,” I chuckled from the driver’s side of the car, watching him sulk, looking down at the backpack laid across his lap. “It’s just one test, my love,” I assure, watching as he pouted further, slinking away from me, head against the passenger side window.  _

_ “Whatever, you just don’t care about grades. My da’s gonna have my hide tanned and put on a fuckin’ display,” he grumbles, crossing his arms across his chest, lamely. I roll my eyes, shifting to a higher gear on the car. I love the way Paul grips the side of the door as we speed off on the highway toward my home. A light dusting of snow was falling against the front of the windshield, easily wiped away by the windshield wipers. I look over to see my lover still sulking, facing away from me, gazing out the passenger’s side window. _

_ “Alright, crabby, what are we gonna do to make this all better?” I ask, trying to hold back a chuckle. I couldn’t deal with Paul’s moodiness sometimes, it wasn’t a rarity that he’d work himself up into some kind of a lather over something as small as a bad test grade, and then there’d be this strange wall up between us.  _

_ I hear a heavy sigh from across from me, I catch sight of the brunette curling somehow further in on himself, sending a pointed glare my way. And that was enough for me, I checked my exterior rear-view mirrors and easily switched lanes. Eventually, I was turning around, taking the main road back towards Paul’s house.  _

_ It seemed as though he hadn’t quite yet caught on to where I was taking him, his forehead still pressed against the passenger-side window, his eyes glassy, his soft breaths fogging against the freezing glass. I slowed down a bit as we reached the residential areas, taking the route back to Paul’s place that I travelled every day to take him to and from school, as well as my own house. It wasn’t until we pulled past the large stone marker that indicated that we were in his neighborhood that Paul’s head perked up from the window.  _

_ “Hey, where are we going?” he asks, pointedly, obviously used to the consistency of going to my house after school, then eventually to his own, never skipping the trip to my house entirely. I ruminate on answering his question for a moment, glancing at a couple of snow-dusted trees out my window. _

_ “To your house, where does it look like we’re going?” I tease, flatly, wondering if he’d perk up at all. And, it did, just as I’d predicted. Quickly, he’s sitting up, his bookbag falling from his lap onto the floor of the car.  _

_ “Why?” He quickly asks, scrambling to pick the bag back up, placing it back into his lap, looking up at me, his big hazel eyes gone wider, looking somehow bigger than normal, as if that were even possible.  _

_ “Oh, I don’t know.” I say, making a left turn. “I figured that you didn’t want to hang out with me, if you wouldn’t even talk to me,” I prod him further, turning onto his street.  _

_ “John! I always want to hang out with you, Christ.” Paul huffs, rolling his eyes, placing a soft hand against my upper arm. “Can we go to yours, please?”  _

_ “Sir, yes sir,” I say, pulling into Paul’s driveway before promptly backing out again. “I just thought you’d rather go home, cause you were in a bad mood.”  _

_ “I’d rather be in a bad mood at your house, than in a bad mood at home.” Paul mumbles, sounding rather dejected at the prospect of not getting to spend time with me. “Plus, it’s friday. Why would I wanna be home when it’s not even a school night?” He asks, taunting me further, as if I should be able to read his thoughts. _

_ “Well… excuse me for assuming,” I chuckle, sarcastically, making a left turn out of the street that Paul lived on. I received little response from the boy in the passenger seat, nothing but a loud exhale that I could almost call a sigh, but not quite.  _

_ We drive in silence for nearly the rest of the way to my house, Paul still sulking up against the window. He was smoking crack if he thought that I’d be paying attention to him when he was acting like this, he looked like a kindergartener whose puppy just got kicked. I still loved him, though. Even though his mood swings were enough to give anyone whiplash I couldn’t deny the way I felt for him. And, I guess that was the scariest part.  _

_ He was so perfect, even pouting in the passenger seat of my Jaguar, Paul was utterly perfect. And boy oh boy, did that scare the absolute shit out of me.  _

_ I was so scared of losing him, losing what had taken us too damn long to figure out. We’d danced around each other for months, avoiding whatever had made us feel like we weren’t meant to be together. But all that time, I’d nearly squandered it away, by stumbling and falling into bed with whoever seemed convenient, getting high in my car, and being an overall shithead toward this boy who’d shown me nothing but kindness and love. And that saying, you know the one that’s like, “you’ll never know what you have until it’s gone,” yeah. Even though it's something that my mum would hang up on the fridge, it so fucking true.  _

_ And you know what? That fucking terrifies me.  _

_ Sure, being in love is something new for me, it’s something so foreign and strange, it’s something that I never thought I would ever get to experience. And yeah, being in love scares the absolute everliving fuck out of me. But there’s only one thing that scares me more than being in love, and that’s losing the ability to love him. _

_ Losing him.  _

_ I quickly glance over at him, still pouting in the front seat, his index finger tracing the seam of his khaki trousers, his eyes glued to the floor mat. “I love you,” I find myself saying suddenly, not really knowing where that had come from, but shrugging it off nonetheless.  _

_ He looks up at me, a small smile spreading across his soft features, the right corner of his mouth tugging up slightly more than the left. I see something bloom behind his eyes and spread across his expression, a warmth that seemed to quell the coldness of his brooding expression. A familiar smile, something I loved. I wanted to keep looking, transfixed by the beautiful boy sitting beside me, but I fixed my gaze back on the familiar neighborhood street. _

_ God I loved it so fucking much.  _

_ I loved him so fucking much.  _

_ “I love you, too.” Paul’s grinning now, obviously wallowing in the tiny particle of attention that I’d given to him, absolutely basking in the sliver of positive affirmation.  _

_ “Good,” I smile, placing a gentle hand on his thigh, just above his knee, pulling into my drive, finally. I squeeze the spot softly, watching Paul squirm a little bit, a soft chuckle leaving the space between his lips. “I’m heading inside,” I state flatly, shooting Paul a soft smile. He stares back at me, that dopey grin still plastered to his face, his cheeks a bit flushed. He’s still riding the high of me telling him that I loved him, obviously. Although, I’m not really sure why I’d said it. Knowing Paulie, he’d follow me inside like a lost dog, even if I hadn’t told him where I was going, especially after the teeny bit of tenderness I’d shown him. _

_ It was funny, the way he chased after my affection, almost like he was afraid he’d lose it, like I’d disappear from him. He acted like my love was conditional, kinda like I’d wake up one day and for some reason, not feel any love for him anymore, like my love would run out. I knew it wouldn’t, he  _ hopefully  _ knew it wouldn’t, but here he was, after this attention like a moth to a flame. _

_ Fuck.  _

_ I could feel the familiar heat of his stare hitting the back of my head as he watched me exit my car. Funny he was, could go from pouting to all over me in moments, and all it took was me complimenting him. His head was gonna get so big that he wouldn’t be able to get through the door. But, all it took was me calling him pretty and before I can even take a breath, he’s in my lap, hands playing with the hair on the nape of my neck, lips ghosting over mine. Fucking minx he is, always pulling the exact kinda shit. Every time.  _

_ But sure, I’m the horny one.  _

_ I grabbed my backpack from the trunk of my car, then hitting the button that closed the garage on my keys, I proceeded to make my way inside my house. I heard Paul hurry to grab his things from the back of my car, the slam of the trunk cutting through the strange silent static that had settled between us.  _

_ I knew where this was going, it was just a toss-up of how long he’d take to get there. We’d played this game before, the strange tension hanging in the atmosphere, and suddenly it reaches a fever pitch and we’re fucking on the nearest surface. I swear to baby Jesus that if I wasn’t fucking him, we’d fight nonstop. But, it almost seems like after he’s some kind of sweet angel, a real goddamned halo basically glinting over his head after he’d had the daylights fucked out of him. I think he’d drive me crazy if we weren’t in bed together, but I loved it. I love him. I do.  _

_ But Christ on the cross, he was insatiable sometimes.  _

_ The garage leads to the kitchen, which has a table cluttered in bank statements and a bar that was conveniently empty, due to the absence of my father’s presence. I set my backpack down on the tabletop of the bar, unzipping it and pulling out the things I’d need to do my homework this weekend, setting them aside to take upstairs later. I heard Paul come in, but I guess I wasn’t really paying attention, walking myself to the fridge to grab a can of Coke and opening it. I bring the can to my lips, taking a long swig, taking a mental note of the grocery list stuck to the other door of the refrigerator with a magnet.  _ Thanks ma, I’ll get to it, I suppose. 

_ I didn’t notice that Paul was practically on top of me until I felt his soft hand on the small of my back, right at the beginning of my trousers. “Jesus wept!” I exclaim, startled by his touch that pulls me out of my daze. “Scared me,” I laugh lightly, leaning my head down to press a soft kiss to his forehead.  _

_ He laughs, a soft, breathy laugh that makes something heavy and warm bloom in the pit of my stomach. “Can I have a sip?” He asks, blinking up at me, edging himself up on his tip-toes to make up for the 3 inches I had on him.  _

_ “I can get you your own.” I chuckle, reaching into the fridge, but he stops me, grabbing around my wrist before I can get to the cans inside. _

_ And then it happened.  _

_ Paul grabbed the coke can from my hand, taking a swig of it, before discarding the can on the countertop. And before I knew it, his hands were clasped together, tightly around the back of my neck, leaning up and pressing our lips together. I grin into the kiss, feeling a wave of adrenaline wash over me, a pins-and-needles feeling rippling through my stomach and legs. I’m quickly grabbing at Paul’s waist, feeling the soft canvas of his school shirt against the palm of my hands. I squeeze. Paul groans softly, I deepen the kiss, slipping my tongue into his mouth, teasing.  _

_ I pull away eventually, Paul’s lips reddened and puffy, his eyes nearly as glassy and shiny as his lips had become.  _

_ “Should’ve known this is why you were so fucking pissy, huh?” I gibe playfully, reattaching my lips to his, relishing in the way Paul nipped gently at my bottom lip. “Am I right, my love?” I tease further, wriggling my hands from his hips and into the back pockets of his school slacks.  _

_ Paul breaks the kiss, only to roll his eyes at me, giving me the answer that I expected: I was completely, totally, one-hundred percent right. “Why didn’t you just say something earlier, sugar? Instead of acting like someone kicked your puppy,” I whisper, kissing along Paul’s cheek, moving to nip at his earlobe. He groans almost inaudibly, I press soft kisses to the side of his neck.  _

_ “Why didn’t you just say you wanted me to get you off?” I whisper, laying the flat of my tongue against the side of his neck. The laithe boy writhes in my grip, letting a choked whimper leave his mouth, his head dropping backwards, only leaving more space for my mouth.  _

_ “You do want me to get you off, don’t you?” I ask, dragging my teeth ever-so-gently across the supple skin of Paul’s neck, earning a positively lewd moan from the boy, his hips bucking into mine.  _

_ “Yes! Yes, please!” He gasps, his hands gripping into my hair as I suck softly at a spot below his jaw, hard enough to make him feel good, but soft enough so as to not leave a mark.  _

_ “Wanna hear you say it,” I taunt, quickly untucking Paul’s polo, sliding my hands underneath it to feel the bare skin there. It was more intimate, and it drove Paul absolutely mad. He loved my hands on his skin, rough or soft, he drank in the touches like he needed them to live.  _

_ Paul keens into the flat of my hand against his soft belly, whining. “Get me off, please. Want you to make me…” he trails off, heat rushing to his cheeks as I make eye contact with him. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth.  _

_ “Say it,” I find myself nearly growling, gripping the tender flesh of his hips.  _

_ “Make me cum,” Paul whimpers, barely loud enough for me to hear.  _

_ I grin, running my hands up and down his sides, leaning back in for a kiss, tugging his bottom lip between my teeth, nipping at it softly. Paul gasps, leaning in further to my touches at his sides. I feel the tip of his tongue glide against mine, the feeling it sending a shiver down my spine. I could feel the heat of arousal pooling in my stomach, and I knew Paul felt the same from the way his erection was pressing against my thigh. He’d managed to maneuver himself to get the best of access, subtly pushing against the flat plane of my upper thigh as he went to town on my mouth.  _

_ “If we keep at this, I’m not going to have to do much of anything,” I grin, leaning to let my breath ghost over the shell of his ear, teasing the very tip of my tongue along it. “I think you’ll come all on your own, I probably won’t even have to touch you,” I sigh, moving my right hand to just barely ghost over his hip, dangerously close to where Paul was shamelessly moving himself against me.  _

_ “But you want me to touch you, don’t you?” I whisper, placing a gentle kiss to the hollow behind his ear on his neck, eventually placing the flat of my tongue there, dragging it downwards. Paul let out a wanton moan, gripping his hands into the very back of my hair, tugging softly at the curls on the nape of my neck.  _

_ “Want to touch  _ you, _ ” He begs, barely choking the words out, basically melting into a puddle in my arms. “Please, wanna be on my knees,” He whimpers, his voice trailing off, his enormous eyes blinking back at me, looking startlingly green in this light.  _

_ And there he goes, dropping to his knees against the hard tile flooring of my fucking kitchen, looking up at me through those god-forsaken eyelashes, almost like he was looking for permission. I nod, barely, he knew he didn’t need to ask for this. His fingers go to work unbuckling my belt, fumbling to get the leather out from the belt loops before dropping it to the floor, the buckle clinking against the tile.  _

_ His slender fingers are working at the button of my slacks, sliding the zipper down in a way that was awfully sensual for something as simple as unzipping someone’s pants. Paul’s touch sent electricity coursing over my skin, his fingertips barely ghosting over the outline of my cock in my boxers, making me go slightly weak in the knees.  _

_ “That’s it, bub,” I goad as he works my trousers down my thighs, barely getting them past the edge of my boxers before he’s pressing soft kisses to my clothed erection. I swear to you, I nearly fucking lose it right there. Heaven almighty.  _

_ I weaved my fingers through Paul’s fine, inky hair, relishing in the way he groaned as soon as my fingertips made contact with this scalp. The boy went apeshit for this kind of a thing, swear it. I thread my fingers in further, letting my nails scrape softly across the crown of his head, eliciting a near gasp from the poor boy, mouthing over my hard-on in my boxers. “You like that, my love?” I ask, gently tugging at the fistful of hair that I had gathered between my fingers. Paul lets out the most X-Rated moan I’d heard from him, to date.  _

_ Jesus, Mary and Joseph.  _

_ I feel his nimble fingers creep underneath the waistband of my boxer shorts, a soft palm pressing up against my hardened length. I expected him to tease, expected him to stroke me a few times and leave me hanging like the coquette he was, but he didn’t this time. With a delicate touch, he slid the boxers down with his right hand, pumping my member with his left, looking up at me through those god damned eyelashes. I was done for. I feel a bead of precum seeping off of the end of my cock, which seems as good an invitation as any for Paul to wrap his lips around my tip, suckling softly.  _

_ He laps at the head, tip of his tongue dancing across my slit.  _

_ __ _

I awoke with a start, chest heaving, the air feeling thick and heavy in my chest as I tried to breathe in. The silk of the bed sheets felt constricting, sticking against the thin sheen of sweat that covered most of my body. I was almost sure that I’d jolted awake so hard that I’d surely woken Yoko, but she was still snoring softly next to me. 

This wasn’t the first time that something like this had happened, haunted in my dreams by the ghost of Paul and what we once had. When I woke up, it always felt like I was escaping a horrible nightmare, and maybe I was. But, the things we’d done, the things I’d said, bouncing around in the back of my head and only seemed to emerge when the sun went down. The memories of the times that we’d shared feeling more and more distant, the more that I submerged myself within this life that I’d stumbled into; however, the suppression of what we’d had during the day didn’t stop the flashbacks from coming back at night. And they were there, and they came back, with a fucking vengance. 

I couldn’t go more than a week without the plague of these goddamned dreams that either left me drenched in tears or sweat, and I was always shaking, just often for different reasons. I didn’t mind these times so much, most of them racy replays of the fuckfest that was my final year of sixth-form. Once again, I didn’t mind these, waking up in a cool sweat, sporting a raging boner, it wasn’t the worst way you could wake up. I didn’t mind pulling myself off over the toilet at four-ish in the morning, but it was the other memories that I came to dread. 

These made sleeping nearly unbearable. Luckily, they didn’t happen too often, only once in every blue moon or so. But these left me shaking, sweaty, silent tears streaming. It was always a replay of that night, the night I’d left Paul in the rain and gone home to get in a fight with my father, and ended up burning all of my mother’s clothes in the backyard. No, it’s not the burning of the clothes, or the scuffle with my father that resulted in one hell of a shiner, it was the memory of Paul being so incredibly  _ scared _ of me.

In the nightmare, it’s the same every time, one second I’m calm and the next there’s flashes of red, and Paul’s standing in front of me, bloody and bruised. I know in the dream I did it, I’d hurt him, I’d beat up on him like I had his friends, and he was looking at me,  _ terrified.  _

_ And rightfully so. _

And then suddenly, I’m my father, standing over my mother’s cold, dead body. My hands are clean but I have the knowledge that he had done this, that  _ I  _ had done this. That it was my fault. That all of it was my fucking fault. And then I’m bolting awake, sometimes crying loud enough to wake my  _ wife. _

She always asks me what’s happened and offers to make me tea, but what do I say?  _ Oh yeah I’m fine I just had a dream about my dead mom and that I beat the shit out of my ex-boyfriend, who by the way I still miss and am very much in love with.  _ I’m sure that would go over really well. She’d make me do some bullshit meditation and then make me go see a shrink or something. 

Figures. 

I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face, debating whether to get out of bed or not, noticing the way that the warmth in my stomach and stiffness elsewhere refused to subside. It could wait til morning. I debated going to the restroom, or even waking Yoko, but decided against it, opting to roll onto my side and hoping that the throbbing sensation between my legs would just sort itself out. I wasn’t seventeen fucking years old anymore, there was no reason for this to keep happening. However, it did, a little too often, and it seemed that I’d just have to deal with it. 

I glance at the digital alarm clock on the bedside table nearest me, I squint blindly, attempting to make out the fuzzy numbers without my glasses. It’s no use, I’m blind as a goddamned bat. Carefully, I reached for my glasses that lay on the table, slipping them on just enough to see what time it was. 4:37.

I breathed out a heavy sigh of relief knowing that I still had ample time to go back to bed. Tomorrow held a lot of things on the docket and I wouldn’t have these fucking dreams getting in the way of how I was attempting to live now. 

At seven, I’d be up to make breakfast, or get Kyoko ready for school, whichever Yoko didn’t feel like doing. We were a good team like that. Then I’d work on my painting until Yoko force-fed me lunch, I’d forget to eat entirely if she didn't. We’d probably plan some things for the studio show this weekend, and then I’d have to clean up and swing down to the airport to get Linda and her new arm candy from the airport. Yoko would head to get Kyoko from school. We’d all meet back at the house before heading out to dinner and leaving Kyoko with a babysitter. Linda and company would be staying in the guest bedroom for a couple of days before flying back out to Los Angeles mid-week next week.

Sounded simple enough, although daunting when you were trying to get back to sleep. I set my glasses down on the side table and shut my eyes, hoping to get at least a little more sleep before Kyoko was inevitably standing at the side of my bed, thumb in mouth, poking my forehead saying, “Daddy it’s wake-up time.” 

I grinned at that, drifting eventually back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you’re all doing well wherever you are !! thinking of all of u in these scary times


	4. ease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reunites with an old lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO LOVELIES IM SO EXCITED TO FINALLY UPDATE THIS BOOK !!!!!!!!!! however, this chapter is completely unedited so I apologize for that omg !! IM SO EXCITED FOR YOU ALL TO READ MORE OF THIS HEHEHEHE I HAVE BIG PLANS !! shout out my bb may for being my biggest fan and supporter in this tuff time!   
> ALSO BIG REMINDER in quarantine, its okay to take some time for yourself and relax. its also okay if nothing really feels real and you're not feeling too well. just know that this isn't normal and its okay to feel off! be gentle and kind to yourselves !! I appreciate you all sosososo much!

I hadn’t meant to get so preoccupied, but it wasn’t until I heard a frazzled, and obviously frustrated, Yoko ask me why I wasn’t in the shower that I realized I was running late. Being a husband and father made us late more than not, so this wasn’t a new thing for me, but I knew how much being on time meant to her so I did my best to clean up what I was doing. I threw most of my bushes into the water cup, the palette into the sink, and left the painting to dry on the kitchen table. I didn’t bother to cover it, setting my easel against the wall, closing the patio door and rushing toward the bathroom. 

“I’m going, I’m going!” I laugh, kissing Yoko goodbye as I go to wipe some paint off of me and change clothes. I was just going to the airport, this wasn’t like life or death. She looked at me, turning her head to the side slightly, laughing. “I so want to be mad at you right now, Chuck.” She chides, sighing. She then licked her thumb and wiped what I could only assume was a paint smear off of my cheek. I shook my head.

"But you can’t be mad, can you?” I egg her on, blinking up at her, a mischievous grin spreading across my features. 

“Get in the damn shower,” she snaps, shaking her head, still laughing at me. It must be worse than normal. I could tell that she was getting to the end of her fuse with the way her words got short, her eyebrows furrowing together. “I’ll see you with Linda and JP when I get home. Okay?” She sighs again, grabbing her purse and walking toward our front door. I nod in response, knowing that if I messed around anymore she’d be extra angry with me. 

I walk to the bathroom and turn on the shower, looking at my face in the mirror deciding whether or not a shower was  _ really _ necessary. Once again, I’m going to the fucking airport, what did it matter if I looked nice or not, it was just Linda and her stupid boyfriend, JP or whatever his fucking name is. I would have time to change. Sighing, I looked in the mirror and discovered that the majority of my neck and arms were covered in paint, not to mention a large streak of Yellow Ochre streaked across my left cheek.

Shower it is. 

I would have to make sure that my mustache looked presentable enough, I might even say ‘to hell with it’ and shave the whole thing off, but Yoko liked it. Said it made me look like an artist.  _ Whatever that meant. _ I shook my head, laughing, reaching for the body wash and loofah. This paint would not be easy to get off, I would probably be scrubbing for a hot minute. 

I couldn’t really tell how much I had scrubbed off, not able to see my neck or face obviously, and at this point, I was just hoping that it was enough. I couldn’t have given less of a fuck about any of these events that were set to take place over the course of the next week. But, it mattered to Yoko, so it would have to matter to me. I would make it matter to me. 

I let the hot spray of water coat my body, I tried to avoid getting my hair wet, not wanting to wait for my nearly shoulder length hair to dry. Not to mention, the curls made it unruly and I really didn’t feel like dragging a comb through it right now, it was so damaged from me continually dying the red tint out of it that it became such a hard thing to manage. I shook my head, watching the colors of paint swirl down the drain of the shower.

I groaned, turning the shower off, and quickly attempting to dry myself off, wrapping the towel snugly around my waist. I blindly waddle through the apartment, not having bothered to put on my glasses in my post-shower rush, simply dressing in a pair of baggy jeans and a long sleeved (probably paint stained) tee shirt. I would have to grab some kind of jacket on the way out, but right now I couldn’t even bother to think about that, seeing as I was getting later and later by the second.

Yoko was going to kill me. Linda was going to kill me. Her stupid fucking boyfriend would probably want me dead, too. 

God I hope their flight would be running at least a little bit late. 

I grabbed my car keys off of the kitchen table, grabbing a jean jacket off of the back of one of our kitchen table’s chairs. It was wind-battered and covered in paint splotches, but it would be enough to keep me warm enough in the slight chill of the early September air. Besides, I was just going to the airport anyway, it’s not like I’d be walking outside a great deal. 

_ Stop fretting about nothing, you stupid git.  _

__

Driving nice cars wasn’t a new thing for me, being shrouded in affluence also was not a new thing to me, but it’s probably the fact that this car wasn’t  _ really  _ mine… not John’s… that made every trip in this car feel so strangely  _ foreign.  _ This car was Charles’ car, Charlie’s car,  _ Chuck’s car, _ not John’s car. But, it was little things like this that made me catch myself every once in a while; it wasn’t out of the ordinary for me to almost completely slip into this comfortable state, almost assuring myself that this was  _ my life _ and that I could lead it the way I wish. But then, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror or see my driver’s license and I realize that this is  _ not my life,  _ or sometimes, even worse: this was my life, and I was becoming Charles McKenzie. 

I was lucky that the traffic wasn’t as absolutely horrific as I’d expected. I was lucky enough to own my own car, not having to take the subway or a cab when I wanted to go somewhere. Yoko had offered to get us a chauffeur or some obscenely snobby shit, but I’d told her no. There was still a rambunctious teenager inside me whose heart beats for nice cars and going fast on the open road.

And it’s nice, you know? We go out for drives every so often, and it’s nice. It really is.

I fell into a strange rhythm, feeling the car hum under my fingertips as they gripped the steering wheel, my mind finding a way to drown out the constant honking from other Offensive-Driving New Yorkers as I trudge towards the airport. 

I hoped I wouldn't be too late. The last thing I needed this week was my head on a platter to be displayed at the gala this weekend, knowing my wife she’d find a way to turn my corpse into a form of performance art. She’d let people like come and cut my hair off and keep a lock of it as a lesson to all men as to not act out as a husband. I laughed to myself imagining my decapitated head on a platter making my wife heaps of money.  _ “My god it’s so realistic, Ms. Ono.”  _ they’d all say, poking my lifeless cheek. 

I rolled my eyes at myself, trying not to think in such a morbid fashion.

My mind tended to wander like that sometimes, but that wasn’t new. This was not a new occurrence. 

Besides, I didn’t have much time to think anyway, as I had to park and run into the massive airport as fast as I could. John F. Kennedy Airport was a hell hole, it was a down-right maze and always absolutely  _ crawling  _ with people. I was never one for large crowds of strangers, and wading through a sea of people only to wait outside where the terminals began was a less than ideal way for me to spend my Thursday afternoon. But, here we are. 

I tried to ignore the glares from weary travelers, their bags obviously heavy on their shoulders, the dense atmosphere of the airport creating a strange cloud of emotion that I couldn’t quite pinpoint. Airports were strange, you know? People always come and go, trying to get somewhere, do something, see someone they haven’t seen in a while, yet it always seemed that there was a strange air that was almost devoid of time. Almost like this airport in particular was out of the realm of time itself, existing entirely on another plane of existence. 

I looked down checking my watch, the time read 4:39 p.m. and I was  _ early.  _ Somehow, in the rush of it all, I had managed to be here all of six minutes early, not that it really mattered, Linda and company would still have to pick up their bags at baggage claim, we’d still have to walk to my car, and make the trek home, and we’d be lucky to get there before probably seven o’clock. I was so impatient about it all, housing Linda and a stranger in our house, the gala this weekend, the painting still sitting unfinished in the kitchen of our small penthouse, all of it was weighing heavy like a rock in the pit of my fucking stomach. And honestly, I wasn’t sure why. We’d housed Linda more than once before and I’d met more than one of her infamous past lovers, most of them fitting the stereotype of Classic American Asshole, so I wasn’t sure why I expected any different. 

Except, over the phone, she’d insisted to us that JP was different, that he was something special, that she was sure that he was the one and all of that. Yoko and I had laughed about it, acknowledging the fact that this would be probably guy number five to receive the title of “the one”, so in all actuality, the entire thing didn’t mean that much. And maybe that was it, I was dreading having to spend a week with some Meat Head from Los Angeles who had frosted tips and a tribal tattoo that he insisted meant he was “absolutely dope”. I sighed, mentally preparing myself for the reunion. I loved Linda, I did, but her choice in men was far from… good. 

But she was a friend, I’d gut out the week to be a friend. Charles McKenzie was a good friend, a much better one than John Lennon had ever been, and I reckon that’s probably a good thing.

“Charlie! Charlie!!” I hear a sweet voice call over the crowd, and I immediately shoot up from the bench I’m sat on, searching through the rush of people for the tall blonde. I was amazed that her voice could even cut through the volume of the atrium we were stuck standing in, but I heard her call out my name again. 

“Charlie? I knew I saw you!!” Linda shouts, and it takes me a second, but then I see her. She’s running towards me quickly, an enormous chunky purse over one shoulder, a crushed velvet zip-up hoodie hanging loosely on her laithe frame, a white camisole underneath of that. Classic. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a messily styled ponytail and I don’t even have time to look for Mr. Plus One as I’m engulfed in an absolutely bone-crushing hug. The stiff leather of her purse practically knocked the air clean out of me, her thin arms wrapping around my neck, cutting off any hope of getting any air in my lungs. I laugh as much as I can, easing Linda off of me and back to the ground. “How was your flight?” I ask, excitedly, taking in her bright smile and wide grin. 

“So long.” She sighs, bringing a hand up to scrub over her face, carding a manicured hand through her hair. “But it was totally worth it, ‘cause I’m here… I mean  _ we’re  _ here! You have to meet JP! He’s gone to baggage claim already!” 

I nearly groaned, but I held back an annoyed look and plastered on a bright smile, “Sounds great!” I cheer. Honestly, in the rush of Linda’s nearly suffocating embrace, I had  _ almost  _ forgotten about the stupid boyfriend character. Almost. 

I feel Linda’s soft hand lace through mine, tugging me out of the crowd and towards the baggage claim area, there were the same amount of angry and irritable people in this section of the airport, they were all just much more spread out, allowing us to bob and weave towards their baggage claim carousel. I find the carousel labeled LAX and begin looking over the people standing at the baggage claim. I scan over the crowd, my eyes catching on a tall man with bleached hair, wearing a New York Knicks basketball jersey. That had to be him. I sighed, frustratedly, already seeing my week’s fate laid out ahead of me. I figured we’d move closer and closer to this man, but instead we’re walking past him to the next carousel over, completely passing the poser in the boot-cut jeans and Knicks jersey. 

“Linda… didn’t we pass your carousel…?” I ask loudly, over the wall of sound that this area provided. 

“Nope! We flew out of Hollywood Burbank, so we’ve got a few more carousels to go, I think.” she answers, cooly. I breathe a heavy sigh of relief thanking the universe that I don’t have to spend the next few days with  _ that  _ guy. 

Finally, my eyes land on the screen that reads ‘BUR’ in enormous white letters and I scan the people standing around, letting out a large sigh of relief when I don’t see any body-builder looking guys or dudes with frosted tips. However, I’m almost sure that I would’ve much rather spent the week with one of them, than the man that turned around when Linda called out, “JP! Come meet Charlie!”

I glance around to see who turns around, seeing as no man of LInda’s usual taste is anywhere in sight. However, my eye catches on a young man, probably about my age, dressed in jeans and a plain tee-shirt, daphne blue. I smile fondly, recognizing that awful color and style of shirt as one I’d worn quite a few times throughout my days in highschool. Flashes of Paul dancing outside in swim-trunks with a mouthful of ice cream, slim, pale shoulders covered by the thin fabric. In that moment, it almost felt like he could turn around and I would see Paul. 

The tall, thin man carrying a duffle bag and two suits on hangers, covered by protective plastic, turns towards us, and suddenly it feels like my fucking head is under water. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even speak as his long legs practically allow him to float over to where we’re standing. I know that I said that he could turn around and it could be Paul, but I didn’t expect for that shit to _ actually happen.  _ I mean, either this man was the most successful Paul McCartney Lookalike that I’d ever seen in my natural life, or Linda’s boyfriend that she’d been gushing about for the past three months is Paul Fucking McCartney. Paul “John’s First Love'' McCartney with the same unstyled hair, big, droopy eyes, long limbs, and pixie nose, but this time it’s adorned with a little silver hoop through the right nostril. 

It couldn’t be him. There was simply no way that I’d be spending the next week in the same, close quarters with the boy that I had abandoned in favor of starting over. There was absolutely no fucking way. 

The young man  _ glides  _ over to where we are, his plump lips somehow finding a way to  _ shine,  _ even under the yellow lighting of the fucking airport. He looked the same as he had, and somehow I felt like I was 19 again and the boy that I loved for so long was just out of reach. But, no, he was  _ here _ right in front of my fucking face, and somehow he was still just out of arms reach, still just too far away for me to reach out and touch. 

His left hand gripped the strap of the duffle bag and I noticed a small tattoo on the underside of his wrist, a few silver bands adorned his slim index and ring fingers. He looked… perfect. But it… there was no way. I was imagining him. This couldn’t…  _ really  _ be him. Could it? 

For so long, I imagined the way that we’d be reunited, the way he’d rush into my arms, our lips reattaching in sloppy, rushed kisses, his hands gripping through my hair, tears streaming down both of our faces. This reunion wasn’t the sepia-toned love that I’d imagined, wasn’t the wet heat of a Liverpool Summer, wasn’t even close to the sweetness of a discarded memory of vanilla ice cream dribbling down my hand with my lover’s head in my lap. What I wanted was always rose-colored and clouded in white-hot passion of a young kid in love. It was never like this, never in the middle of the airport, he never looked at me with a blank fucking expression, almost like he hadn’t ever given me as much as a second fucking thought. He looked at me like he’d never even seen me before, so maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe I was seeing him… maybe it wasn’t- 

“Hello, Charlie! Pleasure to meet you, Linda’s talked about you so fondly,” This imposter says, his voice still unabashedly scouse, holding the same lilt that Paul’s always did. Holding out a hand awkwardly to me, barely able to hold on to the rest of his belongings as he extends the greeting to me. 

I stare at his hand, feeling like I’ve been turned to stone, the entirety of the situation feeling fake, like none of this was real. I was watching all of this unfold from behind some of plexiglass, able to look, but not to touch. I almost wanted to reach out to pinch myself, this was  _ not _ happening, there was absolutely no way. 

“I’m Paul, but most people call me JP,” he says with a grin, and there it was. The young man smiles without showing his teeth, almost a smirk if you looked hard enough, an achingly familiar mischievousness flashes behind his eyes. 

_ Fucking Hell.  _

This was so not what I wanted. I’d trade six weeks on a deserted island with Chad wearing the Knicks Jersey, over  _ this.  _ It was so fucking absurd, I’d played this scene over and over and over in my head millions of times to fall asleep at night, but now that it’s here, now that  _ he’s here _ and he’s standing right in front of me, I don’t want this. I can’t have this. This wasn’t what I wanted, I mean… I wanted him and I wanted to  _ see  _ him, but… not like this. 

My throat is dry and my tongue feels like it weighs at least a hundred pounds, but somehow, I find the words to be able to respond after I’m able to reign a hold on my initial shock. “H-Hi! Yes! I’m Charlie!” I quickly reach out to shake his hand, the closeness of our palms feeling so  _ alien,  _ yet so painfully  _ familiar.  _ I almost wanted there to be a spark, to be a spark of realization in his eyes, but part of me was glad there wasn’t. And, I almost found myself bracing for impact, the impact of him calling me by my name, blowing away everything that I’d built up in the last five years, without so much as a second thought. I steadied myself as he let go of my hand, not so much as even giving me a second look, smiling fondly at the lovely Linda standing next to him. The impact never comes. 

It never fucking comes, and I’m stood there, feeling like I’m stranded in the middle of nowhere, having just swallowed the entirety of the Sahara Desert. He doesn’t even look at me twice, doesn’t even steal a longing glance, doesn't even act like he’s even seen me before, maybe somewhere. 

And part of me knows it’s better, part of me knows that if he recognized me it would ruin  _ him  _ probably more than it would ruin me, but that's not to say that it wouldn’t absolutely annihilate me. Because it would, but something about his lack of attention, lack of care, made my stomach lurch as nausea spread through me. I swallow, thickly, looking back up at the couple, they’re talking but I can’t seem to hear, like my mouth is full of sand and my ears are full of cotton. 

I didn't want this.

I didn’t want this in this way. 

I didn’t want it. _Not like this._

I forcefully snap myself out of it, looking back up at the couple, I bite my bottom lip, curling up my toes against the soles of my shoes. “Right! Should- should we go to the car?” I ask, clapping my hands together, breaking the couple out of whatever small conversation they were having. Linda nods quickly, smiling warmly, reaching out to take a couple of things out of Paul’s arms.

“I’m being a bad host, let me take those,” I say, grabbing the items from Linda’s grasp, and then fishing the keys out of my pocket, walking towards the parking garage.

What the fuck was happening?

With the keys securely around my finger, I reach for my mobile phone in my other pocket, dialing the number slowly and surely, taking in deep breaths. My head felt like it was under 3000 pounds of wet concrete, all of my senses numbed, a ringing in my ears was subtle but annoying enough for me to notice it. 

I lift the cell phone, pressing it to my ear. I hear the hum of the dial tone, and then ringing. Thank god. I’m snapped back to reality with the sound of Paul’s tinkling laugh clearly audible against the ambiance of the city of New York, and suddenly, I’m overwhelmed by it all, and it’s almost too much. I feel my head floating away, almost like I’m detached from my body that’s planted so firmly on the ground. I’m gone, I’m so far gone, so far removed from who I once was. 

What was I doing?

Who even was  _ I? _

“Chuck?” Yoko’s soft voice asks over the receiver of my mobile, and suddenly I’m almost back down to earth, realizing I’d stopped, simply standing in front of the car, frozen. 

“Are you there, Charlie?” Yoko prods again, I blink a few times, taking a breath, something heavy sitting in the middle of my chest. “Is the line dead?” I hear her ask.

“No! No, sorry, I got distracted,” I choke out, fumbling to pop the trunk of the car and put the couple’s belongings in the back. Gently, I close the trunk, my voice escaping me again, not knowing what to even say to Yoko in this situation. 

“Daddy?” A shrill screech comes from somewhere over the other line, and I’m crashing down, I’m a meteorite hitting earth’s surface at that moment. 

“Kyoko says hello,” Yoko laughs, and I’m laughing too. I'm taking in air again, my feet are on the ground again, I’m  _ present.  _

“Hi, princess,” I say, softly, knowing full well that she can’t hear me but saying it anyway. “I’ve picked up Linda and JP,” I say, the names feeling awkward on my tongue. 

“Good.” Yoko hums, and I can hear Kyoko making a fuss in the backseat, but I can’t quite make out what she’s saying. “Kyoko says that we should race you home,” my wife laughs, and I smile. 

“I don’t know, sounds risky, you know how fast I drive,” I chide playfully, my mouth still not feeling like it was connected to my brain. 

“Oh I  _ know.”  _ Yoko groans. “See you at home, Charlie. Take it easy,” she instructs, and the line goes dead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED OH MY GODDDDDD !!! THANK YOU FOR READING AND LEAVING KUDOS AND COMMENTING ! I DONT DESERVE READERS AS COOL AS YOU GUYS AND I LOVE YOU ALL DEARLY XXXX <333

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed !! come hang out with me on tumblr @some-foreign-band


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